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uc-MBtE 


Ibfi    355 


ROADSIDE    HARP 

A  BOOK  OF  VERSES   BY 
LOUISE     IMOGEN    GUINEY 


'•' High-way,  since  you  my  chief  Parnassus  be, 
And  that  my  Muse,  to  some  ears  not  unsweet, 
Tempers  her  -words  to  trampling  horses'1  feet, 
More  oft  than  to  a  chamber  melody  !  " 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  AND 
COMPANY  MDCCCXCIII 


.• 


COPYRIGHT,  1893 

BY  LOUISE   IMOGEN   GUINEY 

ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 


The  Riverside  Press,  Cambridge,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 
Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  H.  O.  Houston  &  Co. 


TO  DORA  AND  HESTER   SIGERSON 

There  in  the  Druid  brake 
If  the  cuckoo  be  awake 
Again,  O  take  my  rhyme  ! 
And  keep  it  long  for  the  sake 
Of  a  bygone  primrose-time  ; 
You  of  the  star-bright  head 
That  twilight  thoughts  sequester, 
You  to  your  native  fountains  led 
Like  to  a  young  Muse  garlanded: 
Dora,  and  Hester. 


March,  1893. 


M13M83 


TABLE    OF   CONTENTS 

Page 

PETER  RUGG  the  Bostonian i 

A  Ballad  of  Kenelm 8 

Vergniaud  in  the  Tumbril 10 

Winter  Boughs 13 

M.  A.  1822-1888 13 

W.  H.  1778-1830 14 

The  Vigil-at-Arms 14 

A  Madonna  of  Domenico  Ghirlandajo    ...15 

Spring  Nightfall 15 

A  Friend's  Song  for  Simoisius 16 

Athassel  Abbey 17 

Florentin 18 

Friendship  Broken 19 

A  Song  of  the  Lilac 20 

In  a  Ruin,  after  a  Thunder-Storm      ....  21 

The  Cherry  Bough 21 

Two  Irish  Peasant  Songs 23 

The  Japanese  Anemone 25 

Tryste  Noel 26 

A  Talisman 27 

Heathenesse 27 

For  Izaak  Walton 28 

Sherman  :  "  An  Horatian  Ode  " 29 

When  on  the  Marge  of  Evening 32 

Rooks  in  New  College  Gardens 32 

Open,  Time 33 

The  Knight  Errant  (Donatello's  Saint  George)  34 

To  a  Dog's  Memory 35 

A  Seventeenth-Century  Song 36 


Table  of      On  the  Pre-Reformation  Churches  about  Ox- 

Contents           ford ^ 

The  Still  of  the  Year 38 

A  Foot-note  to  a  Famous  Lyric 39 

T.  W.  P.  1819-1892 41 

Summum  Bonum 41 

Saint  Florent-le-Vieil 42 

Hylas 42 

Nocturne 43 

The  Kings 44 

Alexandriana 47 

London :  Twelve  Sonnets. 

On  First  Entering  Westminster  Abbey    .  55 

F°g 55 

St.  Peter-ad-Vincula 56 

Strikers  in  Hyde  Park 56 

Changes  in  the  Temple 57 

The  Lights  of  London 58 

Doves 58 

In  the  Reading-Room  of  the  British  Mu 
seum     59 

Sunday  Chimes  in  the  City 59 

A  Porch  in  Belgravia 60 

York  Stairs 61 

In  the  Docks 61 

vi 


A    ROADSIDE    HARP.     POEMS 
BY  LOUISE    IMOGEN   GUINEY 


I 

nPHE  mare  is  pawing  by  the  oak,  Peter Rugg 

1    The  chaise  is  cool  and  wide 
For  Peter  Rugg  the  Bostonian 
With  his  little  son  beside ; 
The  women  loiter  at  the  wheels 
In  the  pleasant  summer-tide. 

"  And  when  wilt  thou  be  home,  Father  ?  " 

"  And  when,  good  husband,  say : 

The  cloud  hangs  heavy  on  the  house 

What  time  thou  art  away." 

He  answers  straight,  he  answers  short, 

"  At  noon  of  the  seventh  day." 

"  Fail  not  to  come,  if  God  so  will, 
And  the  weather  be  kind  and  clear." 
"  Farewell,  farewell !     But  who  am  I 
A  blockhead  rain  to  fear  ? 
God  willing  or  God  unwilling, 
I  have  said  it,  I  will  be  here." 

He  gathers  up  the  sunburnt  boy 
And  from  the  gate  is  sped  ; 
He  shakes  the  spark  from  the  stones  below, 
i 


The  bloom  from  overhead, 

Till  the  last  roofs  of  his  own  town 

Pass  in  the  morning-red. 

Upon  a  homely  mission 

North  unto  York  he  goes, 

Through  the  long  highway  broidered  thick 

With  elder-blow  and  rose  ; 

And  sleeps  in  sound  of  breakers 

At  every  twilight's  close. 

Intense  upon  his  heedless  head 
Frowns  Agamenticus, 
Knowing  of  Heaven's  challenger 
The  answer :  even  thus 
The  Patience  that  is  hid  on  high 
Doth  stoop  to  master  us. 


II 

Full  light  are  all  his  parting  dreams  ; 

Desire  is  in  his  brain  ; 

He  tightens  at  the  tavern-post 

The  fiery  creature's  rein : 

"  Now  eat  thine  apple,  six  years'  child  ! 

We  face  for  home  again." 

They  had  not  gone  a  many  mile 
With  nimble  heart  and  tongue, 
When  the  lone  thrush  grew  silent 
The  walnut  woods  among ; 
And  on  the  lulled  horizon 
A  premonition  hung. 


The  babes  at  Hampton  schoolhouse, 

The  wife  with  lads  at  sea, 

Search  with  a  level-lifted  hand 

The  distance  bodingly ; 

And  farmer  folk  bid  pilgrims  in 

Under  a  safe  roof-tree. 

The  mowers  mark  by  Newbury 

How  low  the  swallows  fly, 

They  glance  across  the  southern  roads 

All  white  and  fever-dry, 

And  the  river,  anxious  at  the  bend, 

Beneath  a  thinking  sky. 

But  there  is  one  abroad  was  born 

To  disbelieve  and  dare : 

Along  the  highway  furiously 

He  cuts  the  purple  air. 

The  wind  leaps  on  the  startled  world 

As  hounds  upon  a  hare ; 

With  brawl  and  glare  and  shudder  ope 

The  sluices  of  the  storm ; 

The  woods  break  down,  the  sand  upblows 

In  blinding  volleys  warm; 

The  yellow  floods  in  frantic  surge 

Familiar  fields  deform. 

From  evening  until  morning 
His  skill  will  not  avail, 
And  as  he  cheers  his  youngest  born, 
His  cheek  is  spectre-pale; 
For  the  bonnie  mare  from  courses  known 
Has  drifted  like  a  sail ! 
3 


Peter  Rugg  \\\ 

nian  °*  °~     <-)n  some  wild  crag  he  sees  the  dawn 
Unsheathe  her  scimitar. 
"  Oh,  if  it  be  my  mother-earth, 
And  not  a  foreign  star, 
Tell  me  the  way  to  Boston, 
And  is  it  near  or  far?  " 


One  watchman  lifts  his  lamp  and  laughs 
"  Ye  've  many  a  league  to  wend." 
The  next  doth  bless  the  sleeping  boy 
From  his  mad  father's  end  ; 
A  third  upon  a  drawbridge  growls  : 
"  Bear  ye  to  larboard,  friend." 

Forward  and  backward,  like  a  stone 

The  tides  have  in  their  hold, 

He  dashes  east,  and  then  distraught 

Darts  west  as  he  is  told, 

(Peter  Rugg  the  Bostonian, 

That  knew  the  land  of  old  !) 

And  journeying,  and  resting  scarce 

A  melancholy  space, 

Turns  to  and  fro,  and  round  and  round, 

The  frenzy  in  his  face, 

And  ends  alway  in  angrier  mood, 

And  in  a  stranger  place, 

Lost !  lost  in  bayberry  thickets 
Where  Plymouth  plovers  run, 
And  where  the  masts  of  Salem 
Look  lordly  in  the  sun ; 


Lost  in  the  Concord  vale,  and  lost  Peter  Rugg 

_.  ,      ,,.   ..  ,  the  Bosto- 

By  rocky  Wollaston  !  nian 

Small  thanks  have  they  that  guide  him, 
Awed  and  aware  of  blight ; 
To  hear  him  shriek  denial 
It  sickens  them  with  fright : 
"  They  lied  to  me  a  month  ago 
With  thy  same  lie  to-night !  " 

To-night,  to-night,  as  nights  succeed, 

He  swears  at  home  to  bide, 

Until,  pursued  with  laughter 

Or  fled  as  soon  as  spied, 

The  weather-drenched  man  is  knov/n 

Over  the  country  side  ! 

IV 

The  seventh  noon 's  a  memory, 
And  autumn 's  closing  in  ; 
The  quince  is  fragrant  on  the  bough, 
And  barley  chokes  the  bin. 
"  O  Boston,  Boston,  Boston! 
And  O  my  kith  and  kin !" 

The  snow  climbs  o'er  the  pasture  wall, 

It  crackles  'neath  the  moon; 

And  now  the  rustic  sows  the  seed, 

Damp  in  his  heavy  shoon ; 

And  now  the  building  jays  are  loud 

In  canopies  of  June. 

For  season  after  season 
The  three  are  whirled  along, 
S 


Peter  Rugg  Misled  by  every  instinct 


theBosto-      Qf 


Yea,  put  them  on  the  surest  trail, 
The  trail  is  in  the  wrong. 

Upon  those  wheels  in  any  path 

The  rain  will  follow  loud, 

And  he  who  meets  that  ghostly  man 

Will  meet  a  thunder-cloud, 

And  whosoever  speaks  with  him 

May  next  bespeak  his  shroud. 

Tho'  nigh  two  hundred  years  have  gone, 

Doth  Peter  Rugg  the  more 

A  gentle  answer  and  a  true 

Of  living  lips  implore  : 

"  Oh,  show  me  to  my  own  town, 

And  to  my  open  door  !  " 


V 

Where  shall  he  see  his  own  town 

Once  dear  unto  his  feet  ? 

The  psalms,  the  tankard  to  the  King, 

The  beacon's  cliffy  seat, 

The  gabled  neighborhood,  the  stocks 

Set  in  the  middle  street? 

How  shall  he  know  his  own  town 
If  now  he  clatters  thro'? 
Much  men  and  cities  change  that  have 
Another  love  to  woo ; 
And  things  occult,  incredible, 
They  find  to  think  and  do. 
6 


With  such  new  wonders  since  he  went  Peter  Rugg 

A  broader  gossip  copes, 

Across  the  crowded  triple  hills, 

And  up  the  harbor  slopes, 

Tradition's  self  for  him  no  more 

Remembers,  watches,  hopes. 

But  ye,  O  unborn  children ! 
(For  many  a  race  must  thrive 
And  drip  away  like  icicles 
Ere  Peter  Rugg  arrive,) 
If  of  a  sudden  to  your  ears 
His  plaint  is  blown  alive  ; 

If  nigh  the  city,  folding  in 

A  little  lad  that  cries, 

A  wet  and  weary  traveller 

Shall  fix  you  with  his  eyes, 

And  from  the  crazy  carriage  lean 

To  spend  his  heart  in  sighs  :  — 

"  That  I  may  enter  Boston, 

Oh,  help  it  to  befall ! 

There  would  no  fear  encompass  me, 

No  evil  craft  appall ; 

Ah,  but  to  be  in  Boston, 

GOD  WILLING,  after  all ! "  — 

Ye  children,  tremble  not,  but  go 
And  lift  his  bridle  brave 
In  the  one  Name,  the  dread  Name, 
That  doth  forgive  and  save, 
And  lead  him  home  to  Copp's  Hill  ground, 
And  to  his  fathers'  grave. 
7 


A  Ballad      "  In  Clent  cow-batch,  Kenelm  King  born 
of  Kenelm     Lieth  under  a  thorn." 

T  T  was  a  goodly  child, 

Sweet  as  the  gusty  May; 
It  was  a  knight  that  broke 
On  his  play, 

A  fair  and  coaxing  knight : 
"  O  little  liege  !  "  said  he, 
"  Thy  sister  bids  thee  come 
After  me. 

"  A  pasture  rolling  west 
Lies  open  to  the  sun, 
Bright-shod  with  primroses 
Doth  it  run ; 
And  forty  oaks  be  nigh, 
Apart,  and  face  to  face, 
And  cow-bells  all  the  morn 
In  the  space. 

"  And  there  the  sloethorn  bush 
Beside  the  water  grows, 
And  hides  her  mocking  head 
Under  snows ; 

Black  stalks  afoam  with  bloom, 
And  never  a  leaf  hath  she  : 
Thou  crystal  of  the  realm, 
Follow  me ! " 

Uplooked  the  undefiled : 
"  All  things,  ere  I  was  born 
My  sister  found ;  now  find 
Me  the  thorn." 


8 


They  travelled  down  the  lane,  A  Ballad 

An  hour's  dust  they  made: 
The  belted  breast  of  one 
Bore  a  blade. 

The  primroses  were  out, 
The  aisled  oaks  were  green, 
The  cow-bells  pleasantly 
Tinked  between ; 
The  brook  was  beaded  gold, 
The  thorn  was  burgeoning, 
Where  evil  Ascobert 
Slew  the  King. 

He  hid  him  in  the  ground, 
Nor  washed  away  the  dyes, 
Nor  smoothed  the  fallen  curls 
From  his  eyes. 
No  father  had  the  babe 
To  bless  his  bed  forlorn  ; 
No  mother  now  to  weep 
By  the  thorn. 

There  fell  upon  that  place 
A  shaft  of  heavenly  light ; 
The  thorn  in  Mercia  spake 
Ere  the  night : 
"  Beyond,  a  sister  sees 
Her  crowned  period, 
But  at  my  root  a  lamb 
Seeth  God." 

Unto  each,  even  so. 
As  dew  before  the  cloud, 
9 


A  Ballad     The  guilty  glory  passed 
ofKenelm     Qf  the 


Boy  Kenelm  has  the  song, 
Saint  Kenelm  has  the  bower  ; 
His  thorn  a  thousand  years 
Is  in  flower! 


Vergniaud  'T*HE  wheels  are  silent,  the  cords  are  slack, 
inJkeTum-    1  The  terrible  faces  are  surging  back. 

France,  they  too  love  thee !  bid  that  keep  plain ; 

The  wrath  and  carnage  I  stayed  afar 
Colleagues  of  my  white  conscience  are  : 
Accept  my  slayers,  accept  me  slain  ! 

Shed  for  days,  in  its  olden  guise 

The  quiet  delicate  snake-skin  lies 

To  cheat  a  boy  on  his  woodland  stroll : 

What  if  he  crush  it  ?     Others  see 

Beauty's  miracle  under  a  tree 

Supple  in  mail,  and  adroit,  and  whole ; 

The  shaper  rid  of  a  shape,  and  thence 
(Growth  of  an  outgrown  excellence), 
Mounted  with  infinite  might  and  speed, 

Freed  like  a  soul  to  the  heaven  it  dreamed  ; 
Over  life  that  was,  and  death  that  seemed 
A  victory  and  a  revenge  indeed ! 
10 


As  the  serpent  moves  to  the  open  spring,  Vergniaud 

The  while  a  mock,  a  delusive  thing  MtA 

Sole  in  sight  of  the  crowd  may  be, 

So  ye,  my  martyrs,  arise,  advance ! 
For  what  is  left  at  the  feet  of  France 
It  is  our  failure,  it  is  not  we. 


II 

Not  to  ourselves  our  strength  we  brought 
Inexpiable  the  Hand  that  wrought 
In  us  the  ruin  of  no  redress, 

The  storm,  the  effort,  the  pang,  the  fire, 
The  premonition,  the  vast  desire, 
The  primal  passion  of  righteousness  ! 

Scarce  by  the  pitiful  thwarted  plan, 
The  haste,  or  the  studious  fears  of  man 
Drawing  a  discord  from  best  delight, 

The  measure  is  meted  of  God  most  wise ; 
Nor  the  future,  with  her  adjusted  eyes, 
Shall  speak  us  false  in  our  dying  fight. 

But  e'en  to  me  now  some  use  is  clear 
In  the  builded  truth  down-beaten  here 
For  any  along  the  way  to  spurn, 

Since  ever  our  broken  task  may  stand 
Disaster's  college  in  one  saved  land, 
Whence  many  a  stripling  state  shall  learn. 
II 


Vergniaud  Out  of  the  human  shoots  the  divine  : 
llril  61     *~  Be  the  Republic  our  only  sign, 

For  whose  life's  glory  our  lives  have  been 

Ambassadors  on  a  noble  way 
Tempest-driven,  and  sent  astray 
The  first  and  the  final  good  between. 

Close  to  the  vision  undestroyed, 

The  hope  not  compassed  and  yet  not  void, 

We  perish  so  ;  but  the  world  shall  mark 

On  the  hilltop  of  our  work  we  died, 
With  joy  of  the  groom  before  the  bride, 
With  a  dawn-cry  thro'  the  battle's  dark. 


Ill 

O  last  save  me  on  the  scaffold's  round  ! 
Take  heart,  that  after  a  thirst  profound 
The  cup  of  delicious  death  is  near, 

And  whoso  hold  it,  or  whence  it  flow, 

O  drink  it  to  France,  to  France  !  and  know 

For  the  gift  thou  givest,  thou  hast  her  tear. 

True  seed  thou  wert  of  the  sunnier  hour, 
Honorable,  and  burst  to  flower 
Late  in  a  hell-pit  poison-walled : 

Farewell,  mortality  lopped  and  pale, 
Thou  body  that  wast  my  friend  !  and  Hail, 
Dear  spirit  already  !  .  .  .  My  name  is  called. 
12 


HOW   tender  and  how  slow,   in  sunset's  Winter 
cheer,  Boufhs 

Far  on  the  hill,  our  quiet  treetops  fade  ! 
A  broidery  of  northern  seaweed,  laid 
Long  in  a  book,  were  scarce  more  fine  and 

clear. 

Frost,  and  sad  light,  and  windless  atmosphere 
Have  breathed  on  them,  and  of  their  frailties 

made 
Beauty  more   sweet    than   summer's   builded 

shade, 
Whose  green  domes  fall,  to  bring  this  wonder 

here. 

O  ye  forgetting  and  outliving  boughs, 
With  not  a  plume,  gay  in  the  jousts  before, 
Left  for  the  Archer  !  so,  in  evening's  eye, 
So  stilled,  so  lifted,  let  your  lover  die, 
Set  in  the  upper  calm  no  voices  rouse, 
Stript,  meek,  withdrawn,  against  the  heavenly 

door. 


(~*  OOD  oars,  for  Arnold's  sake  M.  A, 

^By  Laleham  lightly  bound,  i822-T888 

And  near  the  bank,  O  soft, 

Darling  swan ! 

Let  not  the  o'erweary  wake 

From  this  his  natal  ground, 

But  where  he  slumbered  oft, 

Slumber  on. 


W.H.          "DETWEEN   the  wet  trees   and  the   sorry 
f778-,8jo      & 


Keep,  Time,  in   dark  Soho,  what  once  was 

Hazlitt, 
Seeker  of  Truth,  and  finder  oft  of  Beauty  ; 

Beauty  's  a  sinking  light,  ah,  none  too  faithful  ; 
But  Truth,  who  leaves  so  here  her  spent  pursuer, 
Forgets  not  her  great  pawn  :  herself  shall  claim 
it. 

Therefore  sleep  safe,  thou  dear  and  battling 

spirit, 

Safe  also  on  our  earth,  begetting  ever 
Some  one  love  worth  the  ages  and  the  nations  ! 

Nothing  falls  under  to  thine  eyes  eternal. 
Sleep  safe  in  dark  Soho  :  the  stars  are  shining, 
Titian    and    Wordsworth    live  ;    the    People 
marches. 


The  Vigil-    T/^EEP  holy  watch  with  silence,  prayer,  and 
at-Arms        J\.      <-     .• 

fasting 

Till  morning  break,  and  all  the  bugles  play  ; 
Unto  the  One  aware  from  everlasting 
Dear  are   the  winners  :   thou  art  more  than 
they. 

Forth  from  this  peace  on  manhood's  way  thou 

goest, 

Flushed  with  resolve,  and  radiant  in  mail  ; 
Blessing  supreme  for  men  unborn  thou  sowest, 
O  knight  elect  !     O  soul  ordained  to  fail  ! 
14 


T    ET  thoughts  go  hence  as  from  a  mountain  A  Madon- 
L     spring,  ™< '{**- 

Of  the  great  dust  of  battle  clean  and  whole,      Ghirlan- 
And  the  wild  birds  that  have  no  nest  nor  goal     ajo 
Fold  in  a  young  man's  breast  their  tranced 

wing; 

For  thou  art  made  of  purest  Light,  a  thing 
Art  gave,  beyond  her  own  devout  control ; 
And  Light  upon  thy  seeing,  suffering  soul 
Hath  wrought  a  sign  for  many  journeying; 
Our  sign.     As  up  a  wayside,  after  rain, 
When  the  blown  beeches  purple  all  the  height 
And  clouds  sink  to  the  sea-marge,  suddenly 
The  autumn  sun  (how  soft,  how  solemn-bright !) 
Moves  to  the  vacant  dial,  so  is  lain 
God's  meaning  Hand,  thou  chosen,  upon  thee. 


A  PR  I  L  is  sad,  as  if  the  end  she  knew.  Spring 

"•The  maple's  misty  red,  the  willow's  gold     Nightfall 


Face-deep  in  nimble  water,  seem  to  hold 
In  hope's  own  weather  their  autumnal  hue. 
There  is  no  wind,  no  star,  no  sense  of  dew, 
But  the  thin  vapors  gird  the  mountain  old, 
And  the  moon,  risen  before  the  west  is  cold, 
Pale  with  compassion  slopes  into  the  blue. 
Under  the  shining  dark  the  day  hath  passed 
Shining  ;  so  even  of  thee  was  home  bereaved, 
Thou  dear  and  pensive  spirit  !  overcast 
Hardly  at  all,  but  drawn  from  light  to  light, 
Who  in  the  doubtful  hour,  and  unperceived, 
Rebuked    adoring    hearts  with   change    and 
flight. 

15 


A  Friend's  np HE  breath  of  dew,  and  twilight's  grace, 
SSimoi°ius  Be  on  the  lonely  battle-place  ; 

And  to  so  young,  so  kind  a  face, 

The  long,  protecting  grasses  cling ! 

(Alas,  alas, 

The  one  inexorable  thing !) 

In  rocky  hollows  cool  and  deep, 
The  bees  our  boyhood  hunted  sleep ; 
The  early  moon  from  Ida's  steep 
Comes  to  the  empty  wrestling-ring. 
(Alas,  alas, 
The  one  inexorable  thing  !) 

Upon  the  widowed  wind  recede 
No  echoes  of  the  shepherd's  reed, 
And  children  without  laughter  lead 
The  war-horse  to  the  watering. 
(Alas,  alas, 
The  one  inexorable  thing  !) 

Thou  stranger  Ajax  Telamon ! 
What  to  the  loveliest  hast  thou  done, 
That  ne'er  with  him  a  maid  may  run 
Across  the  marigolds  in  spring? 
(Alas,  alas, 
The  one  inexorable  thing  !) 

With  footstep  separate  and  slow 
The  father  and  the  mother  go, 
Not  now  upon  an  urn  they  know 
To  mingle  tears  for  comforting. 
(Alas,  alas, 

The  one  inexorable  thing  !) 
16 


The  world  to  me  has  nothing  dear  A  Friend's 

Beyond  the  namesake  river  here  : 

O  Simois  is  wild  and  clear  ! 

And  to  his  brink  my  heart  I  bring ; 

(Alas,  alas, 

The  one  inexorable  thing !) 

My  heart  no  more,  if  that  might  be, 

Would  stay  his  waters  from  the  sea, 

To  cover  Troy,  to  cover  me, 

To  save  us  from  the  perishing. 

(Alas,  alas, 

The  one  inexorable  thing  !) 


TROLLY  and  Time  have  fashioned  Athassel 

r  Of  thee  a  songless  reed  ;  Abb*y 

O  not-of-earth-impassioned ! 
Thy  music 's  mute  indeed. 

Red  from  the  chantry  crannies 
The  orchids  burn  and  swing, 
And  where  the  arch  began  is 
Rest  for  a  raven's  wing  ; 

And  up  the  bossy  column 
Quick  tails  of  squirrels  wave, 
And  black,  prodigious,  solemn, 
A  forest  fills  the  nave. 

Still  faithfuller,  still  faster, 
To  ruin  give  thy  heart : 
17 


Athassel      Perfect  before  the  Master 
Abbey         Aye  as  thou  wert,  thou  art. 

But  I  am  wind  that  passes 
In  ignorant  wild  tears, 
Uplifted  from  the  grasses, 
Blown  to  the  void  of  years, 

Blown  to  the  void,  yet  sighing 
In  thee  to  merge  and  cease, 
Last  breath  of  beauty's  dying, 
Of  sanctity,  of  peace ! 

Tho'  use  nor  place  forever 
Unto  my  soul  befall, 
By  no  beloved  river 
Set  in  a  saintly  wall, 

Do  thou  by  builders  given 
Speech  of  the  dumb  to  be, 
Beneath  thine  open  heaven, 
Athassel !  pray  for  me. 


Florentin     T  T  EART  all  full  of  heavenly  haste,  too  like 
**     the  bubble  bright 
On  loud  little  water  floating  half  of  an  April 

night, 
Fled  from  the  ear  in  music,  fled  from  the  eye 

in  light, 

18 


Dear    and    stainless   heart   of    a   boy!      No  Florentin 

sweeter  thing  can  be 

Drawn  to  the  quiet  centre  of  God  who  is  our  sea ; 
Whither,  thro'  troubled  valleys,  we  also  follow 

thee. 


WE  chose  the  faint  chill  morning,  friend  Friendship 
and  friend,  *"*<* 

Pacing  the  twilight  out  beneath  an  oak, 

Soul  calling  soul  to  judgment ;  and  we  spoke 

Strange  things  and  deep  as  any  poet  penned, 

Such  truth  as  never  truth  again  can  mend, 

Whatever  arts  we  win,  what  gods  invoke ; 

It  was    not  wrath,   it  made    nor  strife   nor 
smoke : 

Be  what  it  may,  it  had  a  solemn  end. 

Farewell,   in    peace.      We    of    the    selfsame 
throne 

Are  foeman  vassals  ;  pale  astrologers, 

Each  a  wise  sceptic  of  the  other's  star. 

Silently,  as  we  went  our  ways  alone, 

The  steadfast  sun,  whom  no  poor  prayer  de 
ters, 

Drew  high  between  us  his  majestic  bar. 


II 

Mine  was  the  mood  that  shows  the  dearest 

face 

Thro'  a  long  avenue,  and  voices  kind 
Idle,  and  indeterminate,  and  blind 
19 


Friendship  As  rumors  from  a  very  distant  place  ; 
Yet,  even  so,  it  gathered  the  first  chase 
Of   the  first  swallows  where  the  lane's  in 
clined, 

An  ebb  of  wavy  wings  to  serve  my  mind 
For  round  Spring's  vision.     Ah,  some  equal 

grace 

(The  calm  sense  of  seen  beauty  without  sight) 
Befell  thee,  honorable  heart !  no  less 
In  patient  stupor  walking  from  the  dawn ; 
Albeit  thou  too  wert  loser  of  life's  light, 
Like  fallen  Adam  in  the  wilderness, 
Aware  of  naught  but  of  the  thing  withdrawn. 


A  Song  of     A  BOVE  the  wall  that 's  broken, 
the  Lilac      /-X  And  from  the  coppice  thinned, 

So  sacred  and  so  sweet 

The  lilac  in  the  wind  ! 

And  when  by  night  the  May  wind  blows 

The  lilac-blooms  apart, 

The  memory  of  his  first  love 

Is  shaken  on  his  heart. 

In  tears  it  long  was  buried, 
And  trances  wrapt  it  round  ; 
O  how  they  wake  it  now, 
The  fragrance  and  the  sound ! 
For  when  by  night  the  May  wind  blows 
The  lilac-blooms  apart, 
The  memory  of  his  first  love 
Is  shaken  on  his  heart. 
20 


J/'EEP   of  the    Norman,   old  to  flood  and 
*•     cloud- 

Thou  dost  reproach  me  with  thy  sunset  look,      Storm 
That  in  our  common  menace,  I  forsook 
Hope,  the  last  fear,  and  stood  impartial  proud  : 
Almost,  almost,  while  ether  spake  aloud, 
Death    from   the    smoking   stones  my  spirit 

shook 

Into  thy  hollow  as  leaves  into  a  brook, 
No  more  than  they  by  heaven's  assassins  cowed. 

But  now  thy  thousand-scarred  steep  is  flecked 
With  the  calm  kisses  of  the  light  delayed, 
Breathe  on  me  better  valor  :  to  subject 
My  soul  to  greed  of  life,  and  grow  afraid 
Lest,  ere  her  fight's  full  term,  the  Architect 
See  downfall  of  the  stronghold  that  He  made. 


T  N  a  new  poet's  and  a  new  friend's  honor,       The  Cherry 
A  Forth  from  the  scorned  town  and  her  gold-  Bou8h 

getting, 
Come  men  with  lutes  and  bowls,  and  find  a 

welcome 
Here  in  my  garden, 

Find    bowers    and    deep    shade    and  windy 
grasses, 

And  by  the  south  wall,  wet  and  forward-jut 
ting, 

One    early    branch    fire-tipped  with    Roman 
cherries. 

O  naught  is  absent, 

21 


The  Cherry  Q  naught  but  you,  kind  head  that  far  in  prison 
oug  Sunk  on  a  weary  arm,  feels  no  god's  pity 

Stroking  and  sighing  where  the  kingly  laurels 
Were  once  so  plenty, 

Nor  dreams,  from   revels  and   strange  faces 

turning, 
How  on  the  strength  of  my  fair  tree  that  knew 

you, 

I  lean  to-day,  when  most  my  heart  is  laden 
With  your  rich  verses  ! 

Since,  long  ago,  in  other  gentler  weather 
Ere  wrath  and  exile  were,  you  lay  beneath  it, 
(Your  symbol  then,  your  innocent  wild  brother, 
Glad  with  your  gladness,) 

What  has  befallen  in  the  world  of  wonder, 
That  still  it  puts  forth  bubbles  of  sweet  color, 
And  you,  and  you  that  burst  our  eyes  with 

beauty, 
Are  sapped  and  rotten  ? 

Alas !  When  my  young  guests  have  done  with 

singing, 

I  break  it,  leaf  and  fruit,  my  garden's  glory, 
And  hold  it  high  among  them,  and  say  after : 
"  O  my  poor  Ovid, 

"  Years  pass,  and  loves  pass  too ;  and  yet  re 
member 

For  the  clear  time  when  we  were  boys  together, 
These  tears  at  home  are  shed ;  and  with  you  also 
Your  bough  is  dying." 

22 


Two  Irish 
j  Peasant 

Songs 
T  KNEAD  and  I  spin,  but  my  life  is  low  the 

while, 

Oh,  I  long  to  be  alone,  and  walk  abroad  a  mile, 
Yet  if  I  walk  alone,  and  think  of  naught  at 

all, 
Why  from  me  that 's  young  should  the  wild 

tears  fall  ? 

The   shower-stricken  earth,  the  earth-colored 

streams, 
They  breathe  on  me  awake,  and  moan  to  me 

in  dreams, 

And  yonder  ivy  fondling  the  broke  castle-wall, 
It  pulls  upon  my  heart  till  the  wild  tears  fall. 

The  cabin-door  looks  down  a  furze-lighted  hill, 
And  far  as  Leighlin  Cross  the  fields  are  green 

and  still ; 
But   once   I   hear  the  blackbird  in  Leighlin 

hedges  call, 
The  foolishness  is  on  me,  and  the  wild  tears 

fall! 

II 

'T  is  the  time  o'  the  year,  if  the  quicken-bough 

be  staunch, 
The  green,  like  a  breaker,  rolls  steady  up  the 

branch, 
And  surges  in  the  spaces,  and  floods  the  trunk, 

and  heaves 
In  little  angry  spray  that  is  the  under-white  of 

leaves ; 

23 


Two  Irish    And  from  the  thorn  in  companies  the  foamy 

petals  fall, 

And  waves  of  jolly  ivy  wink  along  a  windy 
wall. 

'T  is  the  time  o'  the  year  the  marsh  is  full  of 
sound, 

And  good  and  glorious  it  is  to  smell  the  living 
ground. 

The  crimson-headed  catkin  shakes  above  the 
pasture-bars, 

The  daisy  takes  the  middle  field  and  spangles 
it  with  stars, 

And  down  the  bank  into  the  lane  the  prim 
roses  do  crowd, 

All  colored  like  the  twilight  moon,  and  spread 
ing  like  a  cloud ! 

'T  is  the  time  o'  the  year,  in  early  light  and 

glad, 

The  lark  has  a  music  to  drive  a  lover  mad ; 
The  downs  are  dripping  nightly,  the  breathed 

damps  arise, 
Deliciously  the  freshets  cool  the    grayling's 

golden  eyes, 
And  lying  in  a  row  against  the  chilly  north, 

the  sheep 
Inclose   a  place  without   a  wind  for  tender 

lambs  to  sleep. 

'Tis  the  time  o'  the  year  I   turn  upon  the 

height 
To  watch  from  my  harrow  the  dance  of  going 

light; 

24 


And  if  before  the  sun  be  hid,  come  slowly  up  Two  Irish 

,  Peasant 

the  vale  Songs 

Honora  with  her  dimpled  throat,  Honora  with 

her  pail, 
Hey,  but  there  's  many  a  March  for  me,  and 

many  and  many  a  lass  ! 
I  fall  to  work  and  song  again,  and  let  Honora 

pass. 


A  LL  summer  the  breath  of  the  roses  around  The  Japa- 
**•  Exhales  with  a  delicate,  passionate  sound  ;  ™*  Anem~ 
And  when  from  a  trellis,  in  holiday  places, 
They  croon  and  cajole,  with  their  slumberous 

faces, 
A  lad  in  the  lane  must  slacken  his  paces. 

Fragrance  of  these  is  a  voice  in  a  bower  : 
But  low  by  the  wall  is  my  odorless  flower, 
So  pure,  so  controlled,  not  a  fume  is  above  her, 
That  poet  or  bee  should  delay  there  and  hover  ; 
For  she  is  a  silence,  and  therefore  I  love  her. 

And  never  a  mortal  by  morn  or  midnight 
Is  called  to  her  hid  little  house  of  delight  ; 
And  she  keeps  from  the  wind,  on  his  pillages 

olden, 

Upon  a  true  stalk  in  rough  weather  upholden, 
Her  winter-white  gourd  with  the  hollow  moon- 

golden. 

While  ardors  of  roses  contend  and  increase, 
Methinks  she  has  found  how  noble  is  peace, 
25 


Thejapa-    Like  a  spirit  besought  from  the  world  to  dis- 

nese  Anem- 

one  sever, 

Not  absent  to  men,  tho'  resumed  by  the  Giver, 
And  dead  long  ago,  being  lovely  for  ever. 


Tryste         HP  HE  Ox  he  openeth  wide  the  Doore 
Noel  J.  £rom  tjie  gnowe 


And  he  hath  seen  her  Smile  therefore, 

Our  Ladye  without  Sinne. 

Now  soone  from  Sleepe 

A  Starre  shall  leap, 

And  soone  arrive  both  King  and  Hinde  ; 

Amen,  Amen: 

But  O,  the  place  co'd  I  but  finde  ! 

The  Ox  hath  husht  his  voyce  and  bent 

Trewe  eyes  of  Pitty  ore  the  Mow, 

And  on  his  lovelie  Neck,  forspent, 

The  Blessed  lays  her  Browe. 

Around  her  feet 

Full  Warme  and  Sweete 

His  bowerie  Breath  doth  meeklie  dwell  ; 

Amen,  Amen: 

But  sore  am  I  with  Vaine  Travel  ! 

The  Ox  is  host  in  Juda's  stall, 
And  Host  of  more  than  onelie  one, 
For  close  she  gathereth  withal 
Our  Lorde  her  littel  Sonne. 
Glad  Hinde  and  King 
Their  Gyfte  may  bring 
26 


But  wo'd  to-night  my  Teares  were  there,  Tryste 

Amen,  Amen:  Noel 

Between  her  Bosom  and  His  hayre ! 


man 


'"PAKE  Temperance  to  thy  breast,  A  Tails- 

While  yet  is  the  hour  of  choosing, 
As  arbitress  exquisite 
Of  all  that  shall  thee  betide ; 
For  better  than  fortune's  best 
Is  mastery  in  the  using, 
And  sweeter  than  anything  sweet 
The  art  to  lay  it  aside ! 


"VT  O  round  boy-satyr,  racing  from  the  mere,    Heathen- 

1>l  Shakes  on   the   mountain-lawn   his   drip-  esse 
ping  head 

This  many  a  May,  your  sister  being  dead, 

Ye  Christian  folk !  your  sister  great  and  dear. 

To  breathe  her  name,  to  think  how  sad-sin 
cere 

Was   all   her  searching,   straying,   dreaming, 
dread, 

How  of  her  natural  night  was  Plato  bred, 

A  star  to  keep  the  ways  of  honor  clear, 

Who  will  not  sigh  for  her  ?  who  can  forget 

Not  only  unto  camped  Israel, 

Nor  martyr-maids  that  as  a  bridegroom  met 

The  Roman  lion's  roar,  salvation  fell  ? 

To  Him  be  most  of  praise  that  He  is  yet 

Your  God  thro'  gods  not  inaccessible. 
27 


For  Izaak    T 17  HAT  trout  shall  coax  the  rod  of  yore 
Walton          V  V  jn  jtchen  stream  to  dip  ? 

What  lover  of  her  banks  restore 
That  sweet  Socratic  lip  ? 
Old  fishing  and  wishing 
Are  over  many  a  year. 

O  hush  thee,  O  hush  thee !  heart  innocent  and 
dear. 

Again  the  foamy  shallows  fill, 
The  quiet  clouds  amass, 
And  soft  as  bees  by  Catherine  Hill 
At  dawn  the  anglers  pass, 
And  follow  the  hollow, 
In  boughs  to  disappear. 

O  hush  thee,  O  hush  thee  !  heart  innocent  and 
dear. 

Nay,  rise  not  now,  nor  with  them  take 
One  silver-freckled  fool ! 
Thy  sons  to-day  bring  each  an  ache 
For  ancient  arts  to  cool. 
But,  father,  lie  rather 
Unhurt  and  idle  near ; 

O  hush  thee,  O  hush  thee !  heart  innocent  and 
dear. 

While  thought  of  thee  to  men  is  yet 
A  sylvan  playfellow, 
Ne'er  by  thy  marble  they  forget 
In  pious  cheer  to  go. 
As  air  falls,  the  prayer  falls 
O'er  kingly  Winchester : 
O  hush  thee,  O  hush  thee !  heart  innocent  and 
dear.  28 


T 


HIS  was  the  truest  man  of  men, 

.     .  .  "An  Hora- 

The  early-armored  citizen,  tian  ode  " 


Who  had,  with  most  of  sight, 
Most  passion  for  the  right ; 

Who  first  forecasting  treason's  scope 
Able  to  sap  the  Founders'  hope. 
First  to  the  laic  arm 
Cried  ultimate  alarm ; 

Who  bent  upon  his  guns  the  while 
A  misconceived  and  aching  smile, 
And  felt,  thro'  havoc's  part, 
A  torment  of  the  heart, 

Sure,  when  he  cut  the  moated  South 
From  Shiloh  to  Savannah's  mouth, 
Braved  grandly  to  the  end, 
To  conquer  like  a  friend ; 

In  whom  the  Commonwealth  withstood 
Again  the  Carolinian  blood, 
The  beautiful  proud  line 
Beneath  an  evil  sign, 

And  taught  his  foes  and  doubters  still 
How  fatal  is  a  good  man's  will, 
That  like  a  sun  or  sod 
Thinks  not  itself,  but  God  ! 

Many  the  captains  of  our  wrath 
Sought  thus  the  pious  civic  path, 
Knowing  in  what  a  land 
Their  destiny  was  planned, 
29 


Sherman :   And  after,  with  a  forward  sense, 
tidn  Ode"~  A  simple  Roman  excellence, 
Pledge  in  their  spirit  bore 
That  war  should  be  no  more. 


Thrice  Roman  he,  who  saw  the  shock 
(Calm  as  a  weather-wrinkled  rock,) 
Roll  in  the  Georgian  fen  ; 
And  steadfast  aye  as  then 

In  plenitude  of  old  control 

That  asked,  secure  of  his  own  soul, 

No  pardon  and  no  aid, 

If  clear  his  way  were  made, 

Would  have  nor  seat  nor  bays,  nor  bring 
The  Caesar  in  him  to  be  king, 
But  with  abstracted  ear 
Rode  pleased  without  a  cheer. 

Now  he  declines  from  peace  and  age, 
And  home,  his  triple  heritage, 
The  last  and  dearest  head 
Of  all  our  perfect  dead, 

O  what  if  sorrow  cannot  reach 
Far  in  the  shallow  fords  of  speech, 
But  leads  us  silent  round 
The  sad  Missouri  ground, 

Where  on  her  hero  Freedom  lays 
The  scroll  and  blazon  of  her  praise, 
And  bids  to  him  belong 
Arms  trailing,  and  a  song, 
30 


And  broken  flags  with  ruined  dyes  Sherman : 

...  ,  "An  Hora- 

(Bright  once  in  young  and  dying  eyes),  tian  Oden 

Against  the  morn  to  shake 
For  love's  familiar  sake  ? 

The  blessed  broken  flags  unfurled 
Above  a  healed  and  happier  world ! 
There  let  them  droop,  and  be 
His  tent  of  victory  ; 

There,  in  each  year's  auguster  light, 
Lean  in,  and  loose  their  red  and  white, 
Like  apple-blossoms  strewn 
Upon  his  burial-stone. 

For  nothing  more,  the  ages  thro', 
Can  nature  or  the  nation  do 
For  him  who  helped  retrieve 
Our  life,  as  we  believe, 

Save  that  we  also,  trooping  by 
In  sound  yet  of  his  battle-cry, 
Safeguard  with  general  mind 
Our  pact  as  brothers  kind, 

And,  ever  nearer  to  our  star, 
Adore  indeed  not  what  we  are, 
But  wise  reprovings  hold 
Thankworthier  than  gold ; 

And  bear  in  faith  and  rapture  such 
As  can  eternal  issues  touch, 
Whole  from  the  final  field, 
Our  father  Sherman's  shield. 


When  on     V\7HEN  on  the  marge  of  evening  the  last 
^f  Evening  blue  ^B^t  is  broken, 

And  winds  of  dreamy  odor  are  loosened  from 

afar, 
Or  when  my  lattice  opens,  before  the  lark  has 

spoken, 

On  dim  laburnum  -  blossoms,  and  morning's 
dying  star, 

I  think  of  thee,  (O  mine  the  more  if  other  eyes 

be  sleeping !) 
Whose  great  and  noonday  splendor  the  many 

share  and  see, 
While  sacred  and  forever,  some  perfect  law  is 

keeping 
The  late  and  early  twilight  alone  and  sweet  for 

me. 

I 

Rooks  in      /T>HRO'  rosy  cloud,  and  over  thorny  towers, 
%geGar-  Their  wings  with  all  the  autumn  distance 

dens  filled, 

From  I  sis'  valley  border  hundred-hilled, 
The  rooks  are  crowding  home  as  evening  low 
ers: 

Not  for  men  only  and  their  musing  hours, 
By  battled  walls  did  gracious  Wykeham  build 
These  dewy  spaces  early  sown  and  stilled, 
These  dearest  inland  melancholy  bowers. 

Blest  birds !  A  book  held  open  on  the  knee 
Below,  is  all  they  know  of  Adam's  blight : 
With  surer  art  the  while,  and  simpler  rite, 
32 


They  follow  Truth  in  some  monastic  tree,  - 

Where  breathe  against  their  innocent  breasts  Uge  Gar\ 

by  night  dens 

The  scholar's  star,  the  star  of  sanctity. 


OPEN,  Time,  and  let  him  pass  Open, Time 

Shortly  where  his  feet  would  be ! 
Like  a  leaf  at  Michaelmas 
Swooning  from  the  tree, 

Ere  its  hour  the  manly  mind 
Trembles  in  a  sure  decrease, 
Nor  the  body  now  can  find 
Any  hold  on  peace. 

Take  him,  weak  and  overworn ; 
Fold  about  his  dying  dream 
Boyhood,  and  the  April  morn, 
And  the  rolling  stream : 

Weather  on  a  sunny  ridge, 
Showery  weather,  far  from  here ; 
Under  some  deep-ivied  bridge, 
Water  rushing  clear : 

Water  quick  to  cross  and  part, 
(Golden  light  on  silver  sound), 
Weather  that  was  next  his  heart 
All  the  world  around ! 

Soon  upon  his  vision  break 
These,  in  their  remembered  blue  ; 
33 


Time  He  shall  toil  no  more,  but  wake 
Young,  in  air  he  knew. 

He  has  done  with  roofs  and  men. 
Open,  Time,  and  let  him  pass, 
Vague  and  innocent  again, 
Into  country  grass. 


The  c  PIRITS  of  old  that  bore  me, 

Errant  And  set  me>  meek  of  mind, 

(Dona-        Between  great  dreams  before  me, 
*Safat          And  deeds  as  great  behind, 
George)        Knowing  humanity  my  star 

As  first  abroad  I  ride, 

Shall  help  me  wear,  with  every  scar, 

Honor  at  eventide. 

Let  claws  of  lightning  clutch  me 
From  summer's  groaning  cloud, 
Or  ever  malice  touch  me, 
And  glory  make  me  proud. 
O  give  my  youth,  my  faith,  my  sword, 
Choice  of  the  heart's  desire : 
A  short  life  in  the  saddle,  Lord ! 
Not  long  life  by  the  fire. 

Forethought  and  recollection 
Rivet  mine  armor  gay  ! 
The  passion  for  perfection 
Redeem  my  failing  way  ! 


34 


The  arrows  of  the  tragic  time  The 

From  sudden  ambush  cast,  Errant 

With  calm  angelic  touches  ope 
My  Paradise  at  last ! 

I  fear  no  breathing  bowman, 
But  only,  east  and  west, 
The  awful  other  foeman 
Impowered  in  my  breast. 
The  outer  fray  in  the  sun  shall  be, 
The  inner  beneath  the  moon ; 
And  may  Our  Lady' lend  to  me 
Sight  of  the  Dragon  soon ! 


*T*HE  gusty  morns  are  here,  To  a  Dog's 

1  When  all  the  reeds  ride  low  with  level  Memory 

spear  ; 

And  on  such  nights  as  lured  us  far  of  yore, 
Down  rocky  alleys  yet,  and  thro'  the  pine, 
The  Hound-star  and  the  pagan  Hunter  shine: 
But  I  and  thou,  ah,  field-fellow  of  mine, 
Together  roam  no  more. 

Soft  showers  go  laden  now 
With  odors  of  the  sappy  orchard-bough, 
And  brooks  begin  to  brawl  along  the  march ; 
The  late  frost  steams  from  hollow  sedges  high ; 
The  finch  is  come,  the  flame-blue  dragon-fly, 
The  cowslip's  common  gold  that  children  spy, 
The  plume  upon  the  larch. 


35 


To  a  Dog's  There  is  a  music  fills 

Memory       The  Qaks  of  Belmont  and  the  Wayland  hills 

Southward  to  Dewing's  little  bubbly  stream, 
The  heavenly  weather's  call !     Oh,  who  alive 
Hastes  not  to  start,  delays  not  to  arrive, 
Having  free  feet  that  never  felt  a  gyve 
Weigh,  even  in  a  dream  ? 

But  thou,  instead,  hast  found 

The  sunless  April  uplands  underground, 

And  still,  wherever  thou  art,  I  must  be. 

My  beautiful !  arise  in  might  and  mirth, 

For  we  were  tameless  travellers  from  our  birth ; 

Arise  against  thy  narrow  door  of  earth, 

And  keep  the  watch  for  me. 


A  Seven-      O  HE  alone  of  Shepherdesses 

with  her  blue  disdayning  eyes, 
Wo'd  not  hark  a  Kyng  that  dresses 
All  his  lute  in  sighes : 
Yet  to  winne 
Katheryn, 
I  elect  for  mine  Emprise. 

None  is  like  her,  none  above  her, 
Who  so  lifts  my  youth  in  me, 
That  a  littel  more  to  love  her 
Were  to  leave  her  free  ! 
But  to  winne 
Katheryn, 

Is  mine  utmost  love's  degree. 
36 


Distaunce,  cold,  delay,  and  danger, 

Build  the  four  walles  of  her  bower ; 

She 's  noe  Sweete  for  any  stranger, 

She 's  noe  valley  flower  : 

And  to  winne 

Katheryn, 

To  her  height  my  heart  can  Tower ! 

Uppe  to  Beautie's  promontory 

I  will  climb,  nor  loudlie  call 

Perfect  and  escaping  glory 

Folly,  if  I  fall : 

Well  to  winne 

Katheryn ! 

To  be  worth  her  is  my  all. 


A  Seven 
teenth-Cen 
tury  Song 


I 

TMPERIAL    Iffley,    Cumnor  bowered  in 
1          green, 

And  Templar  Sandford   in  the  boatman's 
call, 

And  sweet-belled  Appleton,  and  Wytham 
wall 

That  doth  upon  adoring  ivies  lean  ; 

Meek  Binsey ;  Dorchester  where  streams  con 
vene 

Bidding  on  graves  her  solemn  shadow  fall ; 

Clear  Cassington  that  soars  perpetual ; 

Holton  and  Hampton,  and  ye  towers  between: 

If  one  of  all  in  your  sad  courts  that  come, 

Beloved  and  disparted  !  be  your  own, 

Kin  to  the  souls  ye  had,  while  time  endures, 
37 


OnthePre- 
Reforma- 
tion 

Churches 
about  Ox 
ford 


OnthePre-  Known  to  each  exiled,  each  estranged  stone 
tio**'     Home  in  the  quarries  of  old  Christendom,  — 
Churches     Ah,  mark  him  :  he  will  lay  his  cheek  to  yours. 

about  Ox- 


Is  this  the  end?  is  this  the  pilgrim's  day 
For  dread,  for  dereliction,  and  for  tears  ? 
Rather,  from  grass  and  air  and  many  spheres 
In  prophecy  his  spirit  sinks  away  ; 
And  under   English  eaves,   more    still    than 

they, 

Far-off,  incoming,  wonderful,  he  hears 
The  long-arrested  and  believing  years 
Carry  the  sea-wall  !     Shall  he,  sighing,  say, 
"  Farewell  to  Faith,  for  she  is  dead  at  best 
Who  had  such  beauty  "  ?  or  with  kisses  lain 
For  witness  on  her  darkened  doors,  go  by 
With   a  new  psalm  :  "  O  banished  light  so 

nigh! 

Of  them  was  I  who  bore  thee  and  who  blest  ; 
Even    here  remember  me  when  thou    shalt 

reign." 


The  Still  of  T  TP  from  the  willow-root 
the  Year        U  Subduing  agOnies  leap ; 

The  squirrel  and  the  purple  moth 
Turn  over  amid  their  sleep ; 
The  icicled  rocks  aloft 
Burn  saffron  and  blue  alway, 
And  trickling  and  tinkling 
The  snows  of  the  drift  decay. 
O  mine  is  the  head  must  hang 
38 


And  share  the  immortal  pang  !  The  Still  of 

Winter  or  spring  is  fair ; 
Thaw  's  hard  to  bear. 
Heigho  !  my  heart 's  sick. 

Sweet  is  cherry-time,  sweet 

A  shower,  a  bobolink, 

And  the  little  trillium-blossom 

Tucked  under  her  leaf  to  think ; 

But  here  in  the  vast  unborn 

Is  the  bitterest  place  to  be, 

Till  striving  and  longing 

Shall  quicken  the  earth  and  me. 

What  change  inscrutable 

Is  nigh  us,  we  know  not  well ; 

Gone  is  the  strength  to  sigh 

Either  to  live  or  die. 

Heigho  !  my  heart 's  sick. 


'T'RUE  love's  own  talisman,  which  here  A  Poot- 

1  Shakespeare  and  Sidney  failed  to  teach,  ^mous 

A  steel-and-velvet  Cavalier  Lyric 
Gave  to  our  Saxon  speech : 

Chief  miracle  of  theme  and  touch 
That  upstart  enviers  adore : 
/  could  not  love  thee,  dear,  so  much, 
Loved  I  not  Honour  more. 

No  critic  born  since  Charles  was  king 
But  sighed  in  smiling,  as  he  read  : 
39 


A  Foot-        «  Here  's  theft  of  the  supremest  thing 

note  to  a         .  .    .      ,  .  ,  .  „ 

Famous       A  Poet  might  have  said !  " 

Lyric 

Young  knight  and  wit  and  beau,  who  won 
Mid  war's  adventure,  ladies'  praise, 
Was  't  well  of  you,  ere  you  had  done, 
To  blight  our  modern  bays  ? 

O  yet  to  you,  whose  random  hand 
Struck  from  the  dark  whole  gems  like  these, 
Archaic  beauty,  never  planned 
Nor  reared  by  wan  degrees, 

Which  leaves  an  artist  poor,  and  art 
An  earldom  richer  all  her  years ; 
To  you,  dead  on  your  shield  apart, 
Be  "  Ave  !  "  passed  in  tears. 

How  shall  this  singing  era  spurn 
Her  master,  and  in  lauds  be  loath  ? 
Your  worth,  your  work,  bid  us  discern 
Light  exquisite  in  both. 

'T  was  virtue's  breath  inflamed  your  lyre, 
Heroic  from  the  heart  it  ran ; 
Nor  for  the  shedding  of  such  fire 
Lives  since  a  manlier  man. 

And  till  your  strophe  sweet  and  bold 
So  lovely  aye,  so  lonely  long, 
Love's  self  outdo,  dear  Lovelace  !  hold 
The  pinnacles  of  song. 


40 


FRIEND  who  hast  gone,  and  dost  enrich  T.  W.  P. 
to-day  I8l*-l8(>2 

New  England  brightly  building  far  away, 
And  crown  her  liberal  walk 
With  company  more  choice,  and  sweeter  talk, 

Look  not  on  Fame,  but  Peace  ;  and  in  a  bower 
Receive  at  last  her  fulness  and  her  power : 
Nor  wholly,  pure  of  heart ! 
Forget  thy  few,  who  would  be  where  thou  art. 


V\TAITING  on  Him  who  knows  us  and  our  Summum 

VV  Bonum 


Most  need  have  we  to  dare  not,  nor  desire, 
But  as  He  giveth,  softly  to  suspire 
Against  His  gift,  with  no  inglorious  greed, 
For  this  is  joy,  tho'  still  our  joys  recede  ; 
And,  as  in  octaves  of  a  noble  lyre, 
To  move  our  minds  with   His,  and  clearer, 

higher, 
Sound  forth   our  fate;   for  this  is   strength 

indeed. 

Thanks  to  His  love  let  earth   and  man  dis 

pense 

In  smoke  of  worship  when  the  heart  is  stillest, 
A  praying  more  than  prayer:  "Great  good 

have  I, 

Till  it  be  greater  good  to  lay  it  by  ; 
Nor  can  I  lose  peace,  power,  permanence, 
For  these  smile  on  me  from  the  thing  Thou 

wiliest  !  " 


f?n?lfl°~    rJARE  sPacious  open  vale,  the  vale  of  doom, 
Is  full  of  autumn  sunset ;  blue  and  strong 
The  semicirque  of  water  sweeps  among 
Her  lofty  acres,  each  a  martyr's  tomb ; 
And  slowly,  slowly,  melt  into  the  gloom 
Two  little  idling  clouds,  that  look  for  long 
Like  roseleaf  bodies  of  two  babes  in  song 
Correggio  left  to  flush  a  convent  room. 

Dear  hill  deflowered  in  the  frantic  war ! 
In  my  day,  rather,  have  I  seen  thee  blest 
With  pastoral  roofs  to  break  the  darker  crest 
Of  apple-woods  by  many-isled  Loire, 
And  fires  that  still  suffuse  the  lower  west, 
Blanching  the  beauty  of  thine  evening  star. 


Hylas  T  AR  in  arm,  they  bade  him  rove 

J  Thro'  the  alder's  long  alcove, 
Where  the  hid  spring  musically 
Gushes  to  the  ample  valley. 
(There  's  a  bird  on  the  under  bough 
Fluting  evermore  and  now  : 
"  Keep  —  young !  "  but  who  knows  how  ?) 

Down  the  woodland  corridor, 
Odors  deepened  more  and  more ; 
Blossomed  dogwood,  in  the  briers, 
Struck  her  faint  delicious  fires  ; 
Miles  of  April  passed  between 
Crevices  of  closing  green, 
And  the  moth,  the  violet-lover, 
By  the  wellside  saw  him  hover. 
42 


Ah,  the  slippery  sylvan  dark  !  Hylas 

Never  after  shall  he  mark 

Noisy  ploughmen  drinking,  drinking, 

On  his  drowned  cheek  down-sinking ; 

Quit  of  serving  is  that  wild, 

Absent,  and  bewitched  child, 

Unto  action,  age,  and  danger, 

Thrice  a  thousand  years  a  stranger. 

Fathoms  low,  the  naiads  sing 

In  a  birthday  welcoming ; 

Water-white  their  breasts,  and  o'er  him, 

Water-gray,  their  eyes  adore  him. 

(There  's  a  bird  on  the  under  bough 

Fluting  evermore  and  now  : 

"  Keep  —  young ! "  but  who  knows  how  ?) 


HP  HE  sun  that  hurt  his  lovers  from  on  high    Nocturne 

Is  fallen ;  she  more  merciful  is  nigh, 
The  blessed  one  whose  beauty's  even  glow 
Gave  never  wound  to  any  shepherd's  eye. 
Above  our  pausing  boat  in  shallows  drifted, 
Alone  her  plaintive  form  ascends  the  sky. 

O  sing  !  the  water-golds  are  deepening  now, 
A  hush  is  come  upon  the  beechen  bough ; 
She  shines  the  while  on  thee,   as  saint  to 

saint 

Sweet  interchanged  adorings  may  allow  : 
Sing,  dearest,  with  that  lily  throat  uplifted ; 
They  are  so  like,  the  holy  Moon  and  thou  ! 

43 


The  Kings    A    MAN  said  unto  his  angel : 
^*"  "  My  spirits  are  fallen  thro', 
And  I  cannot  carry  this  battle ; 
O  brother !  what  shall  I  do  ? 

"  The  terrible  Kings  are  on  me, 
With  spears  that  are  deadly  bright, 
Against  me  so  from  the  cradle 
Do  fate  and  my  fathers  fight." 

Then  said  to  the  man  his  angel : 
"  Thou  wavering,  foolish  soul, 
Back  to  the  ranks  !     What  matter 
To  win  or  to  lose  the  whole, 

"  As  judged  by  the  little  judges 
Who  hearken  not  well,  nor  see  ? 
Not  thus,  by  the  outer  issue, 
The  Wise  shall  interpret  thee. 

"  Thy  will  is  the  very,  the  only, 
The  solemn  event  of  things  ; 
The  weakest  of  hearts  defying 
Is  stronger  than  all  these  Kings. 

"  Tho'  out  of  the  past  they  gather, 
Mind's  Doubt  and  Bodily  Pain, 
And  pallid  Thirst  of  the  Spirit 
That  is  kin  to  the  other  twain, 

"  And  Grief,  in  a  cloud  of  banners, 
And  ringletted  Vain  Desires, 
And  Vice,  with  the  spoils  upon  him 
Of  thee  and  thy  beaten  sires, 
44 


"  While  Kings  of  eternal  evil  The  Kings 

Yet  darken  the  hills  about, 
Thy  part  is  with  broken  sabre 
To  rise  on  the  last  redoubt  ; 

"  To  fear  not  sensible  failure, 
Nor  covet  the  game  at  all, 
But  fighting,  fighting,  fighting, 
Die,  driven  against  the  wall !  " 
45 


ALEXANDRIANA 


j  Alexandri- 

T    LAID   the  strewings,  sweetest,  on  thine 
!          urn; 
I   lowered    the   torch,  I   poured  the   cup  to 

Dis. 

Now  hushaby,  my  little  child,  and  learn 
Long  sleep  how  good  it  is. 

In  vain  thy  mother  prays,  wayfaring  hence, 
Peace  to  her  heart,   where  only  heartaches 

dwell; 

But  thou  more  blest,  O  wild  intelligence  ! 
Forget  her,  and  Farewell. 

II 

Gentle  Grecian  passing  by, 
Father  of  thy  peace  am  I : 
Wouldst  thou  now,  in  memory, 
Give  a  soldier's  flower  to  me, 
Choose  the  flag  I  named  of  yore 
Beautiful  Worth-dying-for, 
That  shall  wither  not,  but  wave 
All  the  year  above  my  grave. 

Ill 

Light  thou  hast  of  the  moon, 
Shade  of  the  dammar-pine, 
Here  on  thy  hillside  bed  ; 
Fair  befall  thee,  O  fair 
Lily  of  womanhood, 
Patient  long,  and  at  last 
Here  on  thy  hillside  bed, 
Happier :  ah,  Blaesilla  ! 

49 


Alexandri-  jy 

Two  white  heads  the  grasses  cover : 
Dorcas,  and  her  lifelong  lover. 
While  they  graced  their  country  closes 
Simply  as  the  brooks  and  roses, 
Where  was  lot  so  poor,  so  trodden, 
But  they  cheered  it  of  a  sudden  ? 
Fifty  years  at  home  together, 
Hand  in  hand,  they  went  elsewhither, 
Then  first  leaving  hearts  behind 
Comfortless.    Be  thou  as  kind. 

V 

Upon  thy  level  tomb,  till  windy  winter  dawn, 
The  fallen  leaves  delay ; 
But  plain  and  pure  their  trace  is,  when  them 
selves  are  torn 
From  delicate  frost  away. 

As  here  to  transient  frost  the  absent  leaf  is,  such 
Thou  wert  and  art  to  me : 
So  on  my  passing  life  is  thy  long-passed  touch, 
O  dear  Alcithoe ! 

VI 

Hail,  and  be  of  comfort,  thou  pious  Xeno, 
Late  the  urn  of  many  a  kinsman  wreathing ; 
On  thine  own  shall  even  the  stranger  offer 
Plentiful  myrtle. 

VII 
Here  lies  one  in  the  earth  who  scarce  of  the 

earth  was  moulded, 

Wise  -^Ethalides'  son,  himself  no  lover  of  study, 
50 


Cnopus,  asleep,  indoors :  the  young  invincible  Alexandri- 

ana 
runner. 

They  from  the  cliff  footpath  that  see  on  the 

grave  we  made  him, 
Tameless,   slant  in  the  wind,  the   bare  and 

beautiful  iris, 
Stop  short,  full  of  delight,  and  shout  forth: 

"  See,  it  is  Cnopus 
Runs,  with  white  throat  forward,   over  the 

sands  to  Chalcis ! " 

VIII 

Ere  the  Ferryman  from  the  coast  of  spirits 
Turn  the  diligent  oar  that  brought  thee  thither, 
Soul,  remember :  and  leave  a  kiss  upon  it 
For  thy  desolate  father,  for  thy  sister, 
Whichsoever  be  first  to  cross  hereafter. 

IX 

Jaffa  ended,  Cos  begun 
Thee,  Aristeus.    Thou  wert  one 
Fit  to  trample  out  the  sun  : 
Who  shall  think  thine  ardors  are 
But  a  cinder  in  a  jar  ? 

X 

Me,  deep-tressed  meadows,  take  to  your  loyal 

keeping, 
Hard  by  the  swish  of  sickles  ever  in  Aulon 

sleeping, 
Philophron,  old  and  tired,  and  glad  to  be  done 

with  reaping ! 


Alexandri-  XI 

As  wind  that  wasteth  the  unmarried  rose, 
And  mars  the  golden  breakers  in  the  bay, 
Hurtful  and  sweet  from  heaven  forever  blows 
Sad  thought  that  roughens  all  our  quiet  day ; 

And  elder  poets  envy  while  they  weep 
Ion,  whom  first  the  gods  to  covert  brought, 
Here  under  inland  olives  laid  asleep, 
Most  wise,   most  happy,   having    done  with 
thought. 

XII 

Cows  in  the  narrowing  August  marshes, 

Cows  in  a  stretch  of  water 

Motionless, 

Neck  on  neck  overlapped  and  drooping ; 

These  in  their  troubled  and  dumb  communion, 

Thou  on  the  steep  bank  yonder, 

Pastora ! 

No  more  ever  to  lead  and  love  them, 

No  more  ever.     Thine  innocent  mourners 

Pass  thy  tree  in  the  evening 

Heavily, 

Hearing  another  herd-girl  calling. 

XIII 

Praise  thou  the   Mighty  Mother  for  what  is 

wrought,  not  me, 
A  nameless  nothing-caring  head  asleep  against 

her  knee. 


LONDON : 

TWELVE    SONNETS 


'1PHABOR  of  England!  since  my  light  is 

short 

And  faint,  O  rather  by  the  sun  anew  ster  Abbey 

Of  timeless  passion  set  my  dial  true, 
That  with  thy  saints  and  thee  I  may  consort, 
And  wafted  in  the  calm  Chaucerian  port 
Of  poets,  seem  a  little  sail  long  due, 
And  be  as  one  the  call  of  memory  drew 
Unto  the  saddle  void  since  Agincourt ! 

Not  now  for  secular  love's  unquiet  lease 
Receive  my  soul,  who  rapt  in  thee  erewhile 
Hath  broken  tryst  with  transitory  things ; 
But  seal  with  her  a  marriage  and  a  peace 
Eternal,  on  thine  Edward's  holy  isle, 
Above  the  stormy  sea  of  ended  kings. 


T   IKE  bodiless  water  passing  in  a  sigh,          P°g 
Thro'  palsied   streets   the   fatal  shadows 

flow, 

And  in  their  sharp  disastrous  undertow 
Suck  in  the  morning  sun,  and  all  the  sky. 
The  towery  vista  sinks  upon  the  eye, 
As  if  it  heard  the  Hebrew  bugles  blow, 
Black  and  dissolved ;  nor  could  the  founders 

know 
How  what  was  built  so  bright  should  daily  die. 

Thy  mood  with  man's  is  broken  and  blent  in, 
City  of   Stains  !   and   ache  of  thought  doth 
drown 

55 


Pog  The  primitive  light  in  which  thy  life  began ; 

Great  as  thy  dole  is,  smirched  with  his  sin, 
Greater  and  elder  yet  the  love  of  man 
Full  in  thy  look,  tho'  the  dark  visor 's  down. 


'St.  Peter-     'T'OO  well  I  know,  pacing  the  place  of  awe, 
ad-Vincula     ±  Three    queens>    young    save    in    trouble) 

moulder  by  ; 

More  in  his  halo,  Monmouth's  mocking  eye, 
The  eagle  Essex  in  a  harpy's  claw  ; 
Seymour  and  Dudley,  and  stout  heads  that 

saw 

Sundown  of  Scotland :  how  with  treasons  lie 
White  martyrdoms ;  rank  in  a  company 
Breaker  and  builder  of  the  eternal  law. 

Oft  as  I  come,  the  hateful  garden-row 
Of  ruined  roses  hanging  from  the  stem, 
Where  winds  of  old  defeat  yet  batter  them, 
Infects  me  :  suddenly  must  I  depart, 
Ere  thought  of  men's  injustice  then  and  now 
Add  to  these  aisles  one  other  broken  heart. 


Strikers  in    A    WOOF  reversed  the  fatal  shuttles  weave, 

Hyde  Park  r\    TT  .        ,  .  ,.  ' 

How  slow  !  but  never  once  they  slip  the 

thread. 

Hither,  upon  the  Georgian  idlers'  tread, 
Up  spacious  ways  the  lindens  interleave, 
56 


Clouding  the  royal  air  since  yester-eve,  Strikers  in 

Come  men  bereft  of  time  and  scant  of  bread,     Hyde  Park 
Loud,  who  were  dumb,  immortal,  who  were 

dead, 

Thro'  the  cowed  world  their  kingdom  to  re 
trieve. 

What  ails  thee,  England?    Altar,  mart,  and 

grange 

Dream  of  the  knife  by  night;  not  so,  not  so 
The  clear  Republic  waits  the  general  throe, 
Along  her  noonday  mountains'  open  range. 
God  be  with  both  !  for  one  is  young  to  know 
The  other's  rote  of  evil  and  of  change. 


'TPHE  cry  is  at  thy  gates,  thou  darling  ground,  Changes  in 
A  Again  ;  for  oft  ere  now  thy  children  went    the  Temtle 
Beggared  and  wroth,  and  parting  greeting  sent 
Some  red  old  alley  with  a  dial  crowned ; 
Some  house  of  honor,  in  a  glory  bound 
With  lives  and  deaths  of  spirits  excellent ; 
Some  tree  rude-taken  from  his  kingly  tent 
Hard  by  a  little  fountain's  friendly  sound. 

O  for  Virginius'  hand,  if  only  that 

Maintain  the  whole,  and  spoil  these  spoilings 

soon! 

Better  the  scowling  Strand  should  lose,  alas, 
Her  peopled  oasis,  and  where  it  was 
All  mournful  in  the  cleared  quadrangle  sat 
Echo,  and  ivy,  and  the  loitering  moon. 
57 


The  Lights  HP  HE  evenfall,  so  slow  on  hills,  hath  shot 
1  Far  down  into  the  valley's  cold  extreme, 
Untimely  midnight ;  spire  and  roof  and  stream 
Like  fleeing  spectres,  shudder  and  are  not. 
The  Hampstead  hollies,  from  their  sylvan  plot 
Yet  cloudless,  lean  to  watch  as  in  a  dream, 
From  chaos  climb  with  many  a  sudden  gleam, 
London,  one  moment  fallen  and  forgot. 

Her  booths  begin  to  flare  ;  and  gases  bright 
Prick   door  and  window;  all  her  streets  ob 
scure 
Sparkle    and  swarm  with    nothing  true  nor 

sure, 

Full  as  a  marsh  of  mist  and  winking  light ; 
Heaven  thickens  over,  Heaven  that  cannot  cure 
Her  tear  by  day,  her  fevered  smile  by  night. 


Doves  A  H,  if  man's  boast  and  man's  advance  be 

A      vain, 

And  yonder  bells  of  Bow,  loud-echoing  home, 
And  the  lone  Tree  foreknow  it,  and  the  Dome, 
The  monstrous  island  of  the  middle  main ; 
If  each  inheritor  must  sink  again 
Under  his  sires,  as  falleth  where  it  clomb 
Back    on    the  gone  wave    the    disheartened 

foam  ?  — 
I  crossed  Cheapside,  and  this  was  in  my  brain. 

What  folly  lies  in  forecasts  and  in  fears ! 
Like  a  wide  laughter  sweet  and  opportune, 
58 


Wet  from  the  fount,  three  hundred  doves  of  Doves 

Paul's 
Shook  their  warm  wings,  drizzling  the  golden 

noon, 

And  in  their  rain-cloud  vanished  up  the  walls. 
"God  keeps,"   I   said,   "our    little   flock  of 

years." 


pRAISED   be  the    moon   of  books! 

doth  above 

A  world  of  men,  the  fallen  Past  behold, 
And  fill  the  spaces  else  so  void  and  cold 
To  make  a  very  heaven  again  thereof ; 
As  when  the  sun  is  set  behind  a  grove, 
And  faintly  unto  nether  ether  rolled, 
All  night  his  whiter  image  and  his  mould 
Grows  beautiful  with  looking  on  her  love. 


Thou  therefore,  moon  of  so  divine  a  ray, 
Lend  to  our  steps  both  fortitude  and  light ! 
Feebly  along  a  venerable  way 
They  climb  the  infinite,  or  perish  quite ; 
Nothing  are  days  and  deeds  to  such  as  they, 
While  in  this  liberal  house  thy  face  is  bright. 


that  In  the 

Reading- 
Room  of  the 
British 
Museum 


A  CROSS  the  bridge,  where  in  the  morning  Sunday 


-TTL 


blow 


The  wrinkled  tide  turns  homeward,  and  is  fain 

Homeward  to  drag  the  black  sea-goer's  chain, 

And  the  long  yards  by  Dowgate  dipping  low  j 

59 


Chimes  in 
the  City 


Sunday 
Chimes  in 
the  City 


Across  dispeopled  ways,  patient  and  slow, 
Saint    Magnus    and   Saint    Dunstan  call  in 

vain: 

From  Wren's  forgotten  belfries,  in  the  rain, 
Down  the  blank  wharves  the  dropping  octaves 

go- 
Forbid  not  these  !    Tho'  no  man  heed,  they 

shower 

A  subtle  beauty  on  the  empty  hour, 
From  all  their  dark  throats  aching  and  out- 
blown  ; 

Aye  in  the  prayerless  places  welcome  most, 
Like  the  last  gull  that  up  a  naked  coast 
Deploys  her  white  and  steady  wing,  alone. 


A  Porch 
in  Belgra- 
•via 


"117" HEN,  after  dawn,  the  lordly  houses  hide 
Till  you  fall  foul  of  it,  some  piteous 
guest, 

Some  girl  the  damp  stones  gather  to  their 
breast, 

Her  gold  hair  rough,  her  rebel  garment  wide, 

Who  sleeps,  with  all  that  luck  and  life  de 
nied 

Camped  round,  and  dreams  how  seaward  and 
southwest 

Blue  over  Devon  farms  the  smoke-rings  rest, 

And  sheep  and  lambs  ascend  the  lit  hillside, 

Dear,  of  your  charity,  speak  low,  step  soft, 
Pray  for  a  sinner.     Planet-like  and  still, 
Best  hearts  of  all  are  sometimes  set  aloft 
60 


Only  to  see  and  pass,  nor  yet  deplore  A  Porch 

Even  Wrong  itself,  crowned  Wrong  inscruta- 

ble, 
Which  cannot  not  have  been  for  evermore. 


TV/I"  ANY  a  musing  eye  returns  to  thee,  York  Stairs 

Against  the  lurid  street  disconsolate, 
Who  kept  in  green  domains  thy  bridal  state, 
With  young  tide-waters  leaping  at  thy  knee ; 
And  lest  the  ravening  smoke,  and  enmity, 
Corrode    thee    quite,    thy    lover    sighs,    and 

straight 

Desires  thee  safe  afar,  too  graceful  gate ! 
Throned  on  a  terrace  of  the  Boboli. 

Nay,  nay,  thy  use  is  here.    Stand  queenly  thus 
Till  the  next  fury  ;  teach  the  time  and  us 
Leisure  and  will  to  draw  a  serious  breath : 
Not  wholly  where  thou  art  the  soul  is  cowed, 
Nor  the  fooled  capital  proclaims  aloud 
Barter  is  god,  while  Beauty  perisheth. 


WHERE  the  bales  thunder  till  the  day  is  /« the 
done, 

And  the  wild  sounds  with  wilder  odors  cope ; 
Where  over  crouching  sail  and  coiling  rope, 
Lascar  and  Moor  along  the  gangway  run ; 
Where  stifled  Thames  spreads  in  the  pallid  sun, 
A  hive  of  anarchy  from  slope  to  slope ; 
61 


In  the          Flag  of  my  birth,  my  liberty,  my  hope, 
I  see  thee  at  the  masthead,  joyous  one  ! 

O  thou  good  guest !   So  oft  as,  young  and  warm, 
To  the  home-wind  thy  hoisted  colors  bound, 
Away,  away  from  this  too  thoughtful  ground, 
Sated  with  human  trespass  and  despair, 
Thee  only,  from  the  desert,  from  the  storm, 
A  sick  mind  follows  into  Eden  air. 
62 


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